Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins_clone

three . . . on and on until they reach eleven. Eleven dead in all. Thirteen left to play. My fingernails scrape at the dried blood the boy from District 9 coughed into my face. He’s gone, cer- tainly. I wonder about Peeta. Has he lasted through the day? I’ll know in a few hours. When they project the dead’s images into the sky for the rest of us to see. All of a sudden, I’m overwhelmed by the thought that Peeta may be already lost, bled white, collected, and in the process of being transported back to the Capitol to be cleaned up, re- dressed, and shipped in a simple wooden box back to District 12. No longer here. Heading home. I try hard to remember if I saw him once the action started. But the last image I can con- jure up is Peeta shaking his head as the gong rang out. Maybe it’s better, if he’s gone already. He had no confidence he could win. And I will not end up with the unpleasant task of killing him. Maybe it’s better if he’s out of this for good. I slump down next to my pack, exhausted. I need to go through it anyway before night falls. See what I have to work with. As I unhook the straps, I can feel it’s sturdily made al- though a rather unfortunate color. This orange will practically glow in the dark. I make a mental note to camouflage it first thing tomorrow. I flip open the flap. What I want most, right at this moment, is water. Haymitch’s directive to immediately find water was not arbitrary. I won’t last long without it. For a few days, I’ll be able to function with unpleasant symptoms of dehydration, but after that I'll deteriorate into helplessness and be dead in a week, tops. I carefully lay out the provisions. One thin black 151

sleeping bag that reflects body heal. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. And a half- gallon plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water that's bone dry. No water. How hard would it have been for them to fill up the bottle? I become aware of the dryness in my throat and mouth, the cracks in my lips. I've been moving all day long. It's been hot and I've sweat a lot. I do this at home, but there are always streams to drink from, or snow to melt if it should come to it. As I refill my pack I have an awful thought. The lake. The one I saw while I was waiting for the gong to sound. What if that's the only water source in the arena? That way they'll guarantee drawing us in to fight. The lake is a full day's journey from where I sit now, a much harder journey with nothing to drink. And then, even if I reach it, it's sure to be heavily guarded by some of the Career Tributes. I'm about to panic when I re- member the rabbit I startled earlier today. It has to drink, too. I just have to find out where. Twilight is closing in and I am ill at ease. The trees are too thin to offer much concealment. The layer of pine needles that muffles my footsteps also makes tracking animals harder when I need their trails to find water. And I'm still heading downhill, deeper and deeper into a valley that seems endless. I’m hungry, too, but I don’t dare break into my precious store of crackers and beef yet. Instead, I take my knife and go to work on a pine tree, cutting away the outer bark and scrap- 152

ing off a large handful of the softer inner bark. I slowly chew the stuff as I walk along. After a week of the finest food in the world, it’s a little hard to choke down. But I’ve eaten plenty of pine in my life. I’ll adjust quickly. In another hour, it’s clear I’ve got to find a place to camp. Night creatures are coming out. I can hear the occasional hoot or howl, my first clue that I’ll be competing with natural pre- dators for the rabbits. As to whether I’ll be viewed as a source of food, it’s too soon to tell. There could be any number of an- imals stalking me at this moment. But right now, I decide to make my fellow tributes a priori- ty. I’m sure many will continue hunting through the night. Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will have food, an abundance of water from the lake, torches or flashlights, and weapons they’re itching to use. I can only hope I’ve traveled far and fast enough to be out of range. Before settling down, I take my wire and set two twitch-up snares in the brush. I know it’s risky to be setting traps, but food will go so fast out here. And I can’t set snares on the run. Still, I walk another five minutes before making camp. I pick my tree carefully. A willow, not terribly tall but set in a clump of other willows, offering concealment in those long, flowing tresses. I climb up, sticking to the stronger branches close to the trunk, and find a sturdy fork for my bed. It takes some doing, but I arrange the sleeping bag in a relatively com- fortable manner. I place my backpack in the foot of the bag, then slide in after it. As a precaution, I remove my belt, loop it all the way around the branch and my sleeping bag, and refas- 153

ten it at my waist. Now if I roll over in my sleep, I won’t go crashing to the ground. I’m small enough to tuck the top of the bag over my head, but I put on my hood as well. As night falls, the air is cooling quickly. Despite the risk I took in getting the backpack, I know now it was the right choice. This sleeping bag, radiating back and preserving my body heat, will be inva- luable. I’m sure there are several other tributes whose biggest concern right now is how to stay warm whereas I may actual- ly be able to get a few hours of sleep. If only I wasn’t so thirsty ... Night has just come when I hear the anthem that proceeds the death recap. Through the branches I can see the seal of the Capitol, which appears to be floating in the sky. I’m actually viewing another screen, an enormous one that’s transported by of one of their disappearing hovercraft. The anthem fades out and the sky goes dark for a moment. At home, we would be watching full coverage of each and every killing, but that’s thought to give an unfair advantage to the living tributes. For instance, if I got my hands on the bow and shot someone, my secret would be revealed to all. No, here in the arena, all we see are the same photographs they showed when they tele- vised our training scores. Simple head shots. But now instead of scores they post only district numbers. I take a deep breath as the face of the eleven dead tributes begin and tick them off one by one on my fingers. The first to appear is the girl from District 3. That means that the Career Tributes from 1 and 2 have all survived. No surprise there. Then the boy from 4. I didn’t expect that one, 154

usually all the Careers make it through the first day. The boy from District 5 . . . I guess the fox-faced girl made it. Both tri- butes from 6 and 7. The boy from 8. Both from 9. Yes, there’s the boy who I fought for the backpack. I’ve run through my fingers, only one more dead tribute to go. Is it Peeta? No, there’s the girl from District 10. That’s it. The Capitol seal is back with a final musical flourish. Then darkness and the sounds of the forest resume. I’m relieved Peeta’s alive. I tell myself again that if I get killed, his winning will benefit my mother and Prim the most. This is what I tell myself to explain the conflicting emotions that arise when I think of Peeta. The gratitude that he gave me an edge by professing his love for me in the interview. The an- ger at his superiority on the roof. The dread that we may come face-to-face at any moment in this arena. Eleven dead, but none from District 12. I try to work out who is left. Five Career Tributes. Foxface. Thresh and Rue. Rue . . . so she made it through the first day after all. I can’t help feeling glad. That makes ten of us. The other three I’ll figure out tomorrow. Now when it is dark, and I have traveled far, and I am nestled high in this tree, now I must try and rest. I haven’t really slept in two days, and then there’s been the long day’s journey into the arena. Slowly, I allow my muscles to relax. My eyes to close. The last thing I think is it’s lucky I don’t snore. . . . Snap! The sound of a breaking branch wakes me. How long have I been asleep? Four hours? Five? The tip of my nose is icy cold. Snap! Snap! What’s going on? This is not the sound of a 155

branch under someone’s foot, but the sharp crack of one com- ing from a tree. Snap! Snap! I judge it to be several hundred yards to my right. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that di- rection. For a few minutes, there’s nothing but blackness and some scuffling. Then I see a spark and a small fire begins to bloom. A pair of hands warms over flames, but I can’t make out more than that. I have to bite my lip not to scream every foul name I know at the fire starter. What are they thinking? A fire I’ll just at nightfall would have been one thing. Those who battled at the Cornucopia, with their superior strength and surplus of sup- plies, they couldn’t possibly have been near enough to spot the flames then. But now, when they’ve probably been com- bing the woods for hours looking for victims. You might as well be waving a flag and shouting, “Come and get me!” And here I am a stone’s throw from the biggest idiot in the Games. Strapped in a tree. Not daring to flee since my general location has just been broadcast to any killer who cares. I mean, I know it’s cold out here and not everybody has a sleeping bag. But then you grit your teeth and stick it out until dawn! I lay smoldering in my bag for the next couple of hours real- ly thinking that if I can get out of this tree, I won’t have the least problem taking out my new neighbor. My instinct has been to flee, not fight. But obviously this person’s a hazard. Stupid people are dangerous. And this one probably doesn’t have much in the way of weapons while I’ve got this excellent knife. 156

The sky is still dark, but I can feel the first signs of dawn approaching. I’m beginning to think we — meaning the person whose death I’m now devising and me — we might actually have gone unnoticed. Then I hear it. Several pairs of feet breaking into a run. The fire starter must have dozed off. They’re on her before she can escape. I know it’s a girl now, I can tell by the pleading, the agonized scream that follows. Then there’s laughter and congratulations from several voices. Someone cries out, “Twelve down and eleven to go!” which gets a round of appreciative hoots. So they’re fighting in a pack. I’m not really surprised. Often alliances are formed in the early stages of the Games. The strong band together to hunt down the weak then, when the tension becomes too great, begin to turn on one another. I don’t have to wonder too hard who has made this alliance. It’ll be the remaining Career Tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4. Two boys and three girls. The ones who lunched together. For a moment, I hear them checking the girl for supplies. I can tell by their comments they’ve found nothing good. I won- der if the victim is Rue but quickly dismiss the thought. She’s much too bright to be building a fire like that. “Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking.” I’m almost certain that’s the brutish boy from Dis- trict 2. There are murmurs of assent and then, to my horror, I hear the pack heading toward me. They do not know I’m here. How could they? And I’m well concealed in the clump of trees. At least while the sun stays down. Then my black sleeping bag 157

will turn from camouflage to trouble. If they just keep moving, they will pass me and be gone in a minute. But the Careers stop in the clearing about ten yards from my tree. They have flashlights, torches. I can see an arm here, a boot there, through the breaks in the branches. I turn to stone, not even daring to breathe. Have they spotted me? No, not yet. I can tell from their words their minds are elsewhere. “Shouldn’t we have heard a cannon by now?” “I’d say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in imme- diately.” “Unless she isn’t dead.” “She’s dead. I stuck her myself.” “Then where’s the cannon?” “Someone should go back. Make sure the job’s done.” “Yeah, we don’t want to have to track her down twice.” “I said she’s dead!” An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the oth- ers. “We’re wasting time! I’ll go finish her and let’s move on!” I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Peeta. 158

Thank goodness, I had the foresight to belt myself in. I’ve rolled sideways off the fork and I’m facing the ground, held in place by the belt, one hand, and my feet straddling the pack inside my sleeping bag, braced against the trunk. There must have been some rustling when I tipped sideways, but the Ca- reers have been too caught up in their own argument to catch it. “Go on, then, Lover Boy,” says the boy from District 2. “See for yourself.” I just get a glimpse of Peeta, lit by a torch, heading back to the girl by the fire. His face is swollen with bruises, there’s a bloody bandage on one arm, and from the sound of his gait he’s limping somewhat. I remember him shaking him his head, telling me not to go into the fight for the supplies, when all along, all along he’d planned to throw himself into the thick of things. Just the opposite of what Haymitch had mid him to do. Okay, I can stomach that. Seeing all those supplies was tempting. But this . . . this other thing. This teaming up with the Career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. No one from District 12 would think of doing such a thing! Career tributes are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed, but only because they’re the Capitol’s lapdogs. 159

Universally, solidly hated by all but those from their own districts. I can imagine the things they’re saying about him back home now. And Peeta had the gall to talk to me about disgrace? Obviously, the noble boy on the rooftop was playing just one more game with me. But this will be his last. I will eagerly watch the night skies for signs of his death, if I don’t kill him first myself. The Career tributes are silent until he gets out of ear shot, then use hushed voices. “Why don’t we just kill him now and get it over with?” “Let him tag along. What’s the harm? And he’s handy with that knife.” Is he? That’s news. What a lot of interesting things I’m learning about my friend Peeta today. “Besides, he’s our best chance of finding her.” It takes me a moment to register that the “her” they’re re- ferring to is me. “Why? You think she bought into that sappy romance stuff?” “She might have. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me. Every time I think about her spinning around in that dress, I want to puke.” “Wish we knew how she got that eleven.” “Bet you Lover Boy knows.” The sound of Peeta returning silences them. “Was she dead?” asks the boy from District 2. 160

“No. But she is now,” says Peeta. Just then, the cannon fires. “Ready to move on?” The Career pack sets off at a run just as dawn begins to break, and birdsong fills the air. I remain in my awkward posi- tion, muscles trembling with exertion for a while longer, then hoist myself back onto my branch. I need to get down, to get going, but for a moment I lie there, digesting what I’ve heard. Not only is Peeta with the Careers, he’s helping them find me. The simpleminded girl who has to be taken seriously because of her eleven. Because she can use a bow and arrow. Which Peeta knows better than anyone. But he hasn’t told them yet. Is he saving that information because he knows it’s all that keeps him alive? Is he still pre- tending to love me for the audience? What is going on in his head? Suddenly, the birds fall silent. Then one gives a high- pitched warning call. A single note. Just like the one Gale and I heard when the redheaded Avox girl was caught. High above the dying campfire a hovercraft materializes. A set of huge metal teeth drops down. Slowly, gently, the dead tribute girl is lifted into the hovercraft. Then it vanishes. The birds resume their song. “Move,” I whisper to myself. I wriggle out of my sleeping bag, roll it up, and place it in the pack. I take a deep breath. While I’ve been concealed by darkness and the sleeping bag and the willow branches, it has probably been difficult for the cameras to get a good shot of me. I know they must be track- 161

ing me now though. The minute I hit the ground, I’m guaran- teed a close-up. The audience will have been beside themselves, knowing I was in the tree, that I overheard the Careers talking, that I dis- covered Peeta was with them. Until I work out exactly how I want to play that, I’d better at least act on top of things. Not perplexed. Certainly not confused or frightened. No, I need to look one step ahead of the game. So as I slide out of the foliage and into the dawn light, I pause a second, giving the cameras time to lock on me. Then I cock my head slightly to the side and give a knowing smile. There! Let them figure out what that means! I’m about to take off when I think of my snares. Maybe it’s imprudent to check them with the others so close. But have to. Too many years of hunting, I guess. And the lure of possible meat. I’m rewarded with one fine rabbit. In no time, I’ve cleaned and gutted the animal, leaving the head, feet, tail, skin, and innards, under a pile of leaves. I’m wishing for a fire — eating raw rabbit can give you rabbit fever, a lesson I learned the hard way — when I think of the dead tribute. I hurry back to her camp. Sure enough, the coals of her dying fire are still hot. I cut up the rabbit, fashion a spit out of branches, and set it over the coals. I’m glad for the cameras now. I want sponsors to see I can hunt, that I’m a good bet because I won’t be lured into traps as easily as the others will by hunger. While the rabbit cooks, I grind up part of a charred branch and set about camouflaging my orange pack. The black tones it down, but I feel a layer of 162

mud would definitely help. Of course, to have mud, I’d need water . . . I pull on my gear, grab my spit, kick some dirt over the coals, and take off in the opposite direction the Careers went. I eat half the rabbit as I go, then wrap up the leftovers in my plastic for later. The meat stops the grumbling in my stomach but does little to quench my thirst. Water is my top priority now. As I hike along, I feel certain I’m still holding the screen in the Capitol, so I’m careful to continue to hide my emotions. But what a good time Claudius Templesmith must be having with his guest commentators, dissecting Peeta’s behavior, my reaction. What to make of it all? Has Peeta revealed his true colors? How does this affect the betting odds? Will we lose sponsors? Do we even have sponsors? Yes, I feel certain we do, or at least did. Certainly Peeta has thrown a wrench into our star-crossed lover dynamic. Or has he? Maybe, since he hasn’t spoken much about me, we can still get some mileage out of it. Maybe people will think it’s something we plotted together if I seem like it amuses me now. The sun rises in the sky and even through the canopy it seems overly bright. I coat my lips in some grease from the rabbit and try to keep from panting, but it’s no use. It’s only been a day and I’m dehydrating fast. I try and think of every- thing I know about finding water. It runs downhill, so, in fact, continuing down into this valley isn’t a bad thing. If I could just locate a game trail or spot a particularly green patch of 163

vegetation, these might help me along, but nothing seems to change. There’s just the slight gradual slope, the birds, the sameness to the trees. As the day wears on, I know I’m headed for trouble. What little urine I’ve been able to pass is a dark brown, my head is aching, and there’s a dry patch on my tongue that refuses to moisten. The sun hurts my eyes so I dig out my sunglasses, but when I put them on they do something funny to my vision, so I just stuff them back in my pack. It’s late afternoon when I think I’ve found help. I spot a cluster of berry bushes and hurry to strip the fruit, to suck the sweet juices from the skins. But just as I’m holding them to my lips, I get a hard look at them. What I thought were blueber- ries have a slightly different shape, and when I break one open the insides are bloodred. I don’t recognize these berries, per- haps they are edible, but I’m guessing this is some evil trick on the part of the Gamemakers. Even the plant instructor in the Training Center made a point of telling us to avoid berries un- less you were 100 percent sure they weren’t toxic. Something I already knew, but I’m so thirsty it takes her reminder to give me the strength to fling them away. Fatigue is beginning to settle on me, but it’s not the usual tiredness that follows a long hike. I have to stop and rest fre- quently, although I know the only cure for what ails me re- quires continued searching. I try a new tactic — climbing a tree as high as I dare in my shaky state — to look for any signs of water. But as far as I can see in any direction, there’s the same unrelenting stretch of forest. 164

Determined to go on until nightfall, I walk until I’m stum- bling over my own feet. Exhausted, I haul myself up into a tree and belt myself in. I’ve no appetite, but I suck on a rabbit bone just to give my mouth something to do. Night falls, the anthem plays, and high in the sky I see the picture of the girl, who was apparently from District 8. The one Peeta went back to finish off. My fear of the Career pack is minor compared to my burn- ing thirst. Besides, they were heading away from me and by now they, too, will have to rest. With the scarcity of water, they may even have had to return to the lake for refills. Maybe, that is the only course for me as well. Morning brings distress. My heads throbs with every beat of my heart. Simple movements send stabs of pain through my joints. I fall, rather than jump from the tree. It takes several minutes for me to assemble my gear. Somewhere inside me, I know this is wrong. I should be acting with more caution, moving with more urgency. But my mind seems foggy and forming a plan is hard. I lean back against the trunk of my tree, one finger gingerly stroking the sandpaper surface of my tongue, as I assess my options. How can I get water? Return to the lake. No good. I’d never make it. Hope for rain. There’s not a cloud in the sky. Keep looking. Yes, this is my only chance. But then, another thought hits me, and the surge of anger that follows brings me to me senses. Haymitch! He could send me water! Press a button and have it delivered to me in a silver parachute in minutes. I 165

know I must have sponsors, at least one or two who could af- ford a pint of liquid for me. Yes, it’s pricey, but these people, they’re made of money. And they’ll be betting on me as well. Perhaps Haymitch doesn’t realize how deep my need is. I say in a voice as loud as I dare. “Water.” I wait, hopefully, for a parachute to descend from the sky. But nothing is forth- coming. Something is wrong. Am I deluded about having sponsors? Or has Peeta’s behavior made them all hang back? No, I don’t believe it. There’s someone out there who wants to buy me water only Haymitch is refusing to let it go through. As my mentor, he gets to control the flow of gifts from the sponsors. I know he hates me. He’s made that clear enough. But enough to let me die? From this? He can’t do that, can he? If a mentor mi- streats his tributes, he’ll be held accountable by the viewers, by the people back in District 12. Even Haymitch wouldn’t risk that, would he? Say what you will about my fellow traders in the Hob, but I don’t think they’d welcome him back there if he let me die this way. And then where would he get his liquor? So . . . what? Is he trying to make me suffer for defying him? Is he directing all the sponsors toward Peeta? Is he just too drunk to even notice what’s going on at the moment? Some- how I don’t believe that and I don’t believe he’s trying to kill me off by neglect, either. He has, in fact, in his own unpleasant way, genuinely been trying to prepare me for this. Then what is going on? I bury my face in my hands. There’s no danger of tears now, I couldn’t produce one to save my life. What is Haymitch 166

doing? Despite my anger, hatred, and suspicions, a small voice in the back of my head whispers an answer. Maybe he’s sending you a message, it says. A message. Say- ing what? Then I know. There’s only one good reason Hay- mitch could be withholding water from me. Because he knows I’ve almost found it. I grit my teeth and pull myself to my feet. My backpack seems to have tripled in weight. I find a broken branch that will do for a walking stick and I start off. The sun’s beating down, even more searing than the first two days. I feel like an old piece of leather, drying and cracking in the heat. every step is an effort, but I refuse to stop. I refuse to sit down. If I sit, there’s a good chance I won’t be able to get up again, that I won’t even remember my task. What easy prey I am! Any tribute, even tiny Rue, could take me right now, merely shove me over and kill me with my own knife, and I’d have little strength to resist. But if anyone is in my part of the woods, they ignore me. The truth is, I feel a mil- lion miles from another living soul. Not alone though. No, they’ve surely got a camera tracking me now. I think back to the years of watching tributes starve, freeze, bleed, and dehydrate to death. Unless there’s a really good fight going on somewhere, I’m being featured. My thoughts turn to Prim. It’s likely she won’t be watching me live, but they’ll show updates at the school during lunch. For her sake, I try to look as least desperate as I can. 167

But by afternoon, I know the end is coming. My legs are shaking and my heart too quick. I keep forgetting, exactly what I’m doing. I’ve stumbled repeatedly and managed to re- gain my feet, but when the stick slides out from under me, I fi- nally tumble to the ground unable to get up. I let my eyes close. I have misjudged Haymitch. He has no intention of helping me at all. This is all right, I think. This is not so bad here. The air is less hot, signifying evening’s approach. There’s a slight, sweet scent that reminds me of lilies. My fingers stroke the smooth ground, sliding easily across the top. This is an okay place to die, I think. My fingertips make small swirling patterns in the cool, slippery earth. I love mud, I think. How many times I’ve tracked game with the help of its soft, readable surface. Good for bee stings, too. Mud. Mud. Mud! My eyes fly open and I dig my fingers into the earth. It is mud! My nose lifts in the air. And those are lilies! Pond lilies! I crawl now, through the mud, dragging myself toward the scent. Five yards from where I fell, I crawl through a tangle of plants into a pond. Floating on the top, yellow flowers in bloom, are my beautiful lilies. It’s all I can do not to plunge my face into the water and gulp down as much as I can hold. But I have jus enough sense left to abstain. With trembling hands, I get out my flask and fill it with water. I add what I remember to be the right number of 168

drops of iodine for purifying it. The half an hour of waiting is agony, but I do it. At least, I think it’s a half an hour, but it’s certainly as long as I can stand. Slowly, easy now, I tell myself. I take one swallow and make myself wait. Then another. Over the next couple of hours, I drink the entire half gallon. Then a second. I prepare another before I retire to a tree where I continue sipping, eating rab- bit, and even indulge in one of my precious crackers. By the time the anthem plays, I feel remarkably better. There are no faces tonight, no tributes died today. Tomorrow I’ll stay here, resting, camouflaging my backpack with mud, catching some of those little fish I saw as I sipped, digging up the roots of the pond lilies to make a nice meal. I snuggle down in my sleeping bag, hanging on to my water bottle for dear life, which, of course, it is. A few hours later, the stampede of feet shakes me from slumber. I look around in bewilderment. It’s not yet dawn, but my stinging eyes can see it. It would be hard to miss the wall of fire descending on me. 169

My first impulse is to scramble from the tree, but I’m belted in. Somehow my fumbling fingers release the buckle and I fall to the ground in a heap, still snarled in my sleeping bag. There’s no time for any kind of packing. Fortunately, my backpack and water bottle are already in the bag. I shove in the belt, hoist the bag over my shoulder, and flee. The world has transformed to flame and smoke. Burning branches crack from trees and fall in showers of sparks at my feet. All I can do is follow the others, the rabbits and deer and I even spot a wild dog pack shooting through the woods. I trust their sense of direction because their instincts are sharper than mine. But they are much faster, flying through the un- derbrush so gracefully as my boots catch on roots and fallen tree limbs, that there’s no way I can keep apace with them. The heat is horrible, but worse than the heat is the smoke, which threatens to suffocate me at any moment. I pull the top of my shirt up over my nose, grateful to find it soaked in sweat, and it offers a thin veil of protection. And I run, chok- ing, my bag banging against my back, my face cut with branches that materialize from the gray haze without warn- ing, because I know I am supposed to run. 170

This was no tribute’s campfire gone out of control, no acci- dental occurrence. The flames that bear down on me have an unnatural height, a uniformity that marks them as human- made, machine-made, Gamemaker-made. Things have been too quiet today. No deaths, perhaps no fights at all. The au- dience in the Capitol will be getting bored, claiming that these Games are verging on dullness. This is the one thing the Games must not do. It’s not hard to follow the Gamemakers’ motivation. There is the Career pack and then there are the rest of us, probably spread far and thin across the arena. This fire is designed to flush us out, to drive us together. It may not be the most origi- nal device I’ve seen, but it’s very, very effective. I hurdle over a burning log. Not high enough. The tail end of my jacket catches on fire and I have to stop to rip it from my body and stamp out the flames. But I don’t dare leave the jacket, scorched and smoldering as it is, I take the risk of shov- ing it in my sleeping bag, hoping the lack of air will quell what I haven’t extinguished. This is all I have, what I carry on my back, and it’s little enough to survive with. In a matter of minutes, my throat and nose are burning. The coughing begins soon after and my lungs begin to feel as if they are actually being cooked. Discomfort turns to distress until each breath sends a searing pain through my chest. I manage to take cover under a stone outcropping just as the vomiting begins, and I lose my meager supper and whatever water has remained in my stomach. Crouching on my hands and knees, I retch until there’s nothing left to come up. 171

I know I need to keep moving, but I’m trembling and light- headed now, gasping for air. I allow myself about a spoonful of water to rinse my mouth and spit then take a few swallows from my bottle. You get one minute, I tell myself. One minute to rest. I take the time to reorder my supplies, wad up the sleep- ing bag, and messily stuff everything into the backpack. My minute’s up. I know it’s time to move on, but the smoke has clouded my thoughts. The swift-footed animals that were my compass have left me behind. I know I haven’t been in this part of the woods before, there were no sizable rocks like the one I’m sheltering against on my earlier travels. Where are the Gamemakers driving me? Back to the lake? To a whole new terrain filled with new dangers? I had just found a few hours of peace at the pond when this attack began. Would there be any way I could travel parallel to the fire and work my way back there, to a source of water at least? The wall of fire must have an end and it won’t burn indefinitely. Not because the Gamemakers couldn’t keep it fueled but because, again, that would invite accusations of boredom from the audience. If I could get back behind the fire line, I could avoid meeting up with the Careers. I’ve just decided to try and loop back around, although it will require miles of travel away from the inferno and then a very circuitous route back, when the first fireball blasts into the rock about two feet from my head. I spring out from under my ledge, energized by renewed fear. The game has taken a twist. The fire was just to get us mov- ing, now the audience will get to see some real fun. When I hear the next hiss, I flatten on the ground, not taking time to 172

look. The fireball hits a tree off to my left, engulfing it in flames. To remain still is death. I’m barely on my feet before the third ball hits the ground where I was lying, sending a pil- lar of fire up behind me. Time loses meaning now as I franti- cally try to dodge the attacks. I can’t see where they’re being launched from, but it’s not a hovercraft. The angles are not ex- treme enough. Probably this whole segment of the woods has been armed with precision launchers that are concealed in trees or rocks. Somewhere, in a cool and spotless room, a Ga- memaker sits at a set of controls, fingers on the triggers that could end my life in a second. All that is needed is a direct hit. Whatever vague plan I had conceived regarding returning to my pond is wiped from my mind as I zigzag and dive and leap to avoid the fireballs. Each one is only the size of an ap- ple, but packs tremendous power on contact. Every sense I have goes into overdrive as the need to survive takes over. There’s no time to judge if a move is the correct one. When there’s a hiss, I act or die. Something keeps me moving forward, though. A lifetime of watching the Hunger Games lets me know that certain areas of the arena are rigged for certain attacks. And that if I can just get away from this section, I might be able to move out of reach of the launchers. I might also then fall straight into a pit of vipers, but I can’t worry about that now. How long I scramble along dodging the fireballs I can’t say, but the attacks finally begin to abate. Which is good, because I’m retching again. This time it’s an acidic substance that scalds my throat and makes its way into my nose as well. I’m 173

forced to stop as my body convulses, trying desperately to rid itself of the poisons I’ve been sucking in during the attack. I wait for the next hiss, the next signal to bolt. It doesn’t come. The force of the retching has squeezed tears out of my sting- ing eyes. My clothes are drenched in sweat. Somehow, through the smoke and vomit, I pick up the scent of singed hair. My hand fumbles to my braid and finds a fireball has seared off at least six inches of it. Strands of blackened hair crumble in my fingers. I stare at them, fascinated by the trans- formation, when the hissing registers. My muscles react, only not fast enough this time. The fire- ball crashes into the ground at my side, but not before it skids across my right calf. Seeing my pants leg on fire sends me over the edge. I twist and scuttle backward on my hands and feet, shrieking, trying to remove myself from the horror. When I fi- nally regain enough sense, I roll the leg back and forth on the ground, which stifles the worst of it. But then, without think- ing, I rip away the remaining fabric with my bare hands. I sit on the ground, a few yards from the blaze set off by the fireball. My calf is screaming, my hands covered in red welts. I’m shaking too hard to move. If the Gamemakers want to finish me off, now is the time. I hear Cinna’s voice, carrying images of rich fabric and sparkling gems. “Katniss, the girl who was on fire.” What a good laugh the Gamemakers must be having over that one. Perhaps, Cinna’s beautiful costumes have even brought on this particular torture for me. I know he couldn’t have foreseen this, must be hurting for me because, in fact, I believe he cares 174

about me. But all in all, maybe showing up stark naked in that chariot would have been safer for me. The attack is now over. The Gamemakers don’t want me dead. Not yet anyway. Everyone knows they could destroy us all within seconds of the opening gong. The real sport of the Hunger Games is watching the tributes kill one another. Every so often, they do kill a tribute just to remind the players they can. But mostly, they manipulate us into confronting one another face-to-face. Which means, if I am no longer being fired at, there is at least one other tribute close at hand. I would drag myself into a tree and take cover now if I could, but the smoke is still thick enough to kill me. I make myself stand and begin to limp away from the wall of flames that lights up the sky. It does not seem to be pursuing me any longer, except with its stinking black clouds. Another light, daylight, begins to softly emerge. Swirls of smoke catch the sunbeams. My visibility is poor. I can see maybe fifteen yards in any direction. A tribute could easily be concealed from me here. I should draw my knife as a precau- tion, but I doubt my ability to hold it for long. The pain in my hands can in no way compete with that in my calf. I hate burns, have always hated them, even a small one gotten from pulling a pan of bread from the oven. It is the worst kind of pain to me, but I have never experienced anything like this. I’m so weary I don’t even notice I’m in the pool until I’m ankle-deep. It’s spring-fed, bubbling up out of a crevice in some rocks, and blissfully cool. I plunge my hands into the shallow water and feel instant relief. Isn’t that what my moth- 175

er always says? The first treatment for a burn is cold water? That it draws out the heat? But she means minor burns. Prob- ably she’d recommend it for my hands. But what of my calf? Although I have not yet had the courage to examine it, I’m guessing that it’s an injury in a whole different class. I lie on my stomach at edge of the pool for a while, dangling my hands in the water, examining the little flames on my fin- gernails that are beginning to chip off. Good. I’ve had enough fire for a lifetime. I bathe the blood and ash from my face. I try to recall all I know about burns. They are common injuries in the Seam where we cook and heat our homes with coal. Then there are the mine accidents. . . . A family once brought in an uncons- cious young man pleading with my mother to help him. The district doctor who’s responsible for treating the miners had written him off, told the family to take him home to die. But they wouldn’t accept this. He lay on our kitchen table, sense- less to the world. I got a glimpse of the wound on his thigh, gaping, charred flesh, burned clear down to the bone, before I ran from the house. I went to the woods and hunted the entire day, haunted by the gruesome leg, memories of my father’s death. What’s funny was, Prim, who’s scared of her own sha- dow, stayed and helped. My mother says healers are born, not made. They did their best, but the man died, just like the doc- tor said he would. My leg is in need of attention, but I still can’t look at it. What if it’s as bad as the man’s and I can see my bone? Then I remember my mother saying that if a burn’s severe, the victim 176

might not even feel pain because the nerves would be de- stroyed. Encouraged by this, I sit up and swing my leg in front of me. I almost faint at the sight of my calf. The flesh is a brilliant red covered with blisters. I force myself to take deep, slow breaths, feeling quite certain the cameras are on my face. I can’t show weakness at this injury. Not if I want help. Pity does not get you aid. Admiration at your refusal to give in does. I cut the remains of the pant leg off at the knee and ex- amine the injury more closely. The burned area is about the size of my hand. None of the skin is blackened. I think it’s not too bad to soak. Gingerly I stretch out my leg into the pool, propping the heel of my boot on a rock so the leather doesn’t get too sodden, and sigh, because this does offer some relief. I know there are herbs, if I could find them, that would speed the healing, but I can’t quite call them to mind. Water and time will probably be all I have to work with. Should I be moving on? The smoke is slowly clearing but still too heavy to be healthy. If I do continue away from the fire, won’t I be walking straight into the weapons of the Ca- reers? Besides, every time I lift my leg from the water, the pain rebounds so intensely I have to slide it back in. My hands are slightly less demanding. They can handle small breaks from the pool. So I slowly put my gear back in order. First I fill my bottle with the pool water, treat it, and when enough time has passed, begin to rehydrate my body. After a time, I force myself to nibble on a cracker, which helps settle my stomach. I roll up my sleeping bag. Except for a few black marks, it’s rela- 177

tively unscathed. My jacket’s another matter. Stinking and scorched, at least a foot of the back beyond repair. I cut off the damaged area leaving me with a garment that comes just to the bottom of my ribs. But the hood’s intact and it’s far better than nothing. Despite the pain, drowsiness begins to take over. I’d take to a tree and try to rest, except I’d be too easy to spot. Besides, abandoning my pool seems impossible. I neatly arrange my supplies, even settle my pack on my shoulders, but I can’t seem to leave. I spot some water plants with edible roots and make a small meal with my last piece of rabbit. Sip water. Watch the sun make its slow arc across the sky. Where would I go anyway that is any safer than here? I lean back on my pack, overcome by drowsiness. If the Careers want me, let them find me, I think before drifting into a stupor. Let them find me. And find me, they do. It’s lucky I’m ready to move on be- cause when I hear the feet, I have less than a minute head start. Evening has begun to fall. The moment I awake, I’m up and running, splashing across the pool, flying into the under- brush. My leg slows me down, but I sense my pursuers are not as speedy as they were before the fire, either. I hear their coughs, their raspy voices calling to one another. Still, they are closing in, just like a pack of wild dogs, and so I do what I have done my whole life in such circumstances. I pick a high tree and begin to climb. If running hurt, climbing is agonizing because it requires not only exertion but direct con- tact of my hands on the tree bark. I’m fast, though, and by the 178

time they’ve reached the base of my trunk, I’m twenty feet up. For a moment, we stop and survey one another. I hope they can’t hear the pounding of my heart. This could be it, I think. What chance do I have against them? All six are there, the five Careers and Peeta, and my on- ly consolation is they’re pretty beat-up, too. Even so, look at their weapons. Look at their faces, grinning and snarling at me, a sure kill above them. It seems pretty hopeless. But then something else registers. They’re bigger and stronger than I am, no doubt, but they’re also heavier. There’s a reason it’s me and not Gale who ventures up to pluck the highest fruit, or rob the most remote bird nests. I must weigh at least fifty or sixty pounds less than the smallest Career. Now I smile. “How’s everything with you?” I call down cheerfully. This takes them aback, but I know the crowd will love it. “Well enough,” says the boy from District 2. “Yourself?” “It’s been a bit warm for my taste,” I say. I can almost hear the laughter from the Capitol. “The air’s better up here. Why don’t you come on up?” “Think I will,” says the same boy. “Here, take this, Cato,” says the girl from District 1, and she offers him the silver bow and sheath of arrows. My bow! My arrows! Just the sight of them makes me so angry I want to scream, at myself, at that traitor Peeta for distracting me from having them. I try to make eye contact with him now, but he seems to be intentionally avoiding my gaze as he polishes his knife with the edge of his shirt. 179

“No,” says Cato, pushing away the bow. “I’ll do better with my sword.” I can see the weapon, a short, heavy blade at his belt. I give Cato time to hoist himself into the tree before I begin to climb again. Gale always says I remind him of a squirrel the way I can scurry up even the slenderest limb. Part of it’s my weight, but part of it’s practice. You have to know where to place your hands and feet. I’m another thirty feet in the air when I hear the crack and look down to see Cato flailing as he and a branch go down. He hits the ground hard and I’m hoping he possibly broke his neck when he gets back to his feet, swearing like a fiend. The girl with the arrows, Glimmer I hear someone call her — ugh, the names the people in District 1 give their children are so ridiculous — anyway Glimmer scales the tree until the branches begin to crack under her feet and then has the good sense to stop. I’m at least eighty feet high now. She tries to shoot me and it’s immediately evident that she’s incompetent with a bow. One of the arrows gets lodged in the tree near me though and I’m able to seize it. I wave it teasingly above her head, as if this was the sole purpose of retrieving it, when ac- tually I mean to use it if I ever get the chance. I could kill them, everyone of them, if those silver weapons were in my hands. The Careers regroup on the ground and I can hear them growling conspiratorially among themselves, furious I have made them look foolish. But twilight has arrived and their window of attack on me is closing. Finally, I hear Peeta say 180

harshly, “Oh, let her stay up there. It’s not like she’s going an- ywhere. We’ll deal with her in the morning.” Well, he’s right about one thing. I’m going nowhere. All the relief from the pool water has gone, leaving me to feel the full potency of my burns. I scoot down to a fork in the tree and clumsily prepare for bed. Put on my jacket. Lay out my sleep- ing bed. Belt myself in and try to keep from moaning. The heat of the bag’s too much for my leg. I cut a slash in the fabric and hang my calf out in the open air. I drizzle water on the wound, my hands. All my bravado is gone. I’m weak from pain and hunger but can’t bring myself to eat. Even if I can last the night, what will the morning bring? I stare into the foliage trying to will myself to rest, but the burns forbid it. Birds are settling down for the night, singing lullabies to their young. Night creatures emerge. An owl hoots. The faint scent of a skunk cuts through the smoke. The eyes of some animal peer at me from the neigh- boring tree — a possum maybe — catching the firelight from the Careers’ torches. Suddenly, I’m up on one elbow. Those are no possum’s eyes, I know their glassy reflection too well. In fact, those are not animal eyes at all. In the last dim rays of light, I make her out, watching me silently from between the branches. Rue. How long has she been here? The whole time probably. Still and unobserved as the action unfolded beneath her. Perhaps she headed up her tree shortly before I did, hearing the pack was so close. 181

For a while we hold each other’s gaze. Then, without even rustling a leaf, her little hand slides into the open and points to something above my head. 182

My eyes follow the line of her finger up into the foliage above me. At first, I have no idea what she’s pointing to, but then, about fifteen feet up, I make out the vague shape in the dimming light. But of . . . of what? Some sort of animal? It looks about the size of a raccoon, but it hangs from the bottom of a branch, swaying ever so slightly. There’s something else. Among the familiar evening sounds of the woods, my ears reg- ister a low hum. Then I know. It’s a wasp nest. Fear shoots through me, but I have enough sense to keep still. After all, I don’t know what kind of wasp lives there. It could be the ordinary leave-us-alone-and-we’ll-leave-you- alone type. But these are the Hunger Games, and ordinary isn’t the norm. More likely they will be one of the Capitol’s mutta- tions, tracker jackers. Like the jabberjays, these killer wasps were spawned in a lab and strategically placed, like land mines, around the districts during the war. Larger than regu- lar wasps, they have a distinctive solid gold body and a sting that raises a lump the size of a plum on contact. Most people can’t tolerate more than a few stings. Some die at once. If you live, the hallucinations brought on by the venom have actually driven people to madness. And there’s another thing, these wasps will hunt down anyone who disturbs their nest and at- 183

tempt to kill them. That’s where the tracker part of the name comes from. After the war, the Capitol destroyed all the nests surround- ing their city, but the ones near the districts were left un- touched. Another reminder of our weakness, I suppose, just like the Hunger Games. Another reason to keep inside the fence of District 12. When Gale and I come across a tracker jacker nest, we immediately head in the opposite direction. So is that what hangs above me? I look back to Rue for help, but she’s melted into her tree. Given my circumstances, I guess it doesn’t matter what type of wasp nest it is. I’m wounded and trapped. Darkness has given me a brief reprieve, but by the time the sun rises, the Careers will have formulated a plan to kill me. There’s no way they could do otherwise after I’ve made them look so stupid. That nest may be the sole option I have left. If I can drop it down on them, I may be able to escape. But I’ll risk my life in the process. Of course, I’ll never be able to get in close enough to the ac- tual nest to cut it free. I’ll have to saw off the branch at the trunk and send the whole thing down. The serrated portion of my knife should be able to manage that. But can my hands? And will the vibration from the sawing raise the swarm? And what if the Careers figure out what I’m doing and move their camp? That would defeat the whole purpose. I realize that the best chance I’ll have to do the sawing without drawing notice will be during the anthem. That could begin any time. I drag myself out of my bag, make sure my 184

knife is secured in my belt, and begin to make my way up the tree. This in itself is dangerous since the branches are becom- ing precariously thin even for me, but I persevere. When I reach the limb that supports the nest, the humming becomes more distinctive. But it’s still oddly subdued if these are track- er jackers. It’s the smoke, I think. It’s sedated them. This was the one defense the rebels found to battle the wasps. The seal of the Capitol shines above me and the anthem blares out. It’s now or never, I think, and begin to saw. Blisters burst on my right hand as I awkwardly drag the knife back and forth. Once I’ve got a groove, the work requires less effort but is almost more than I can handle. I grit my teeth and saw away occasionally glancing at the sky to register that there were no deaths today. That’s all right. The audience will be sated seeing me injured and treed and the pack below me. But the anthem’s running out and I’m only three quarters of the way through the wood when the music ends, the sky goes dark, and I’m forced to stop. Now what? I could probably finish off the job by sense of feel but that may not be the smartest plan. If the wasps are too groggy, if the nest catches on its way down, if I try to escape, this could all be a deadly waste of time. Better, I think, to sneak up here at dawn and send the nest into my enemies. In the faint light of the Careers’ torches, I inch back down to my fork to find the best surprise I’ve ever had. Sitting on my sleeping bag is a small plastic pot attached to a silver para- chute. My first gift from a sponsor! Haymitch must have had it sent in during the anthem. The pot easily fits in the palm of my 185

hand. What can it be? Not food surely. I unscrew the lid and I know by the scent that it’s medicine. Cautiously, I probe the surface of the ointment. The throbbing in my fingertip vanish- es. “Oh, Haymitch,” I whisper. “Thank you.” He has not aban- doned me. Not left me to fend entirely for myself. The cost of this medicine must be astronomical. Probably not one but many sponsors have contributed to buy this one tiny pot. To me, it is priceless. I dip two fingers in the jar and gently spread the balm over my calf. The effect is almost magical, erasing the pain on con- tact, leaving a pleasant cooling sensation behind. This is no herbal concoction that my mother grinds up out of woodland plants, it’s high-tech medicine brewed up in the Capitol’s labs. When my calf is treated, I rub a thin layer into my hands. After wrapping the pot in the parachute, I nestle it safely away in my pack. Now that the pain has eased, it’s all I can do to repo- sition myself in my bag before I plunge into sleep. A bird perched just a few feet from me alerts me that a new day is dawning. In the gray morning light, I examine my hands. The medicine has transformed all the angry red patches to a soft baby-skin pink. My leg still feels inflamed, but that burn was far deeper. I apply another coat of medicine and quietly pack up my gear. Whatever happens, I’m going to have to move and move fast. I also make myself eat a cracker and a strip of beef and drink a few cups of water. Almost nothing stayed in my stomach yesterday, and I’m already starting to feel the effects of hunger. 186

Below me, I can see the Career pack and Peeta asleep on the ground. By her position, leaning up against the trunk of the tree, I’d guess Glimmer was supposed to be on guard, but fatigue overcame her. My eyes squint as they try to penetrate the tree next to me, but I can’t make out Rue. Since she tipped me off, it only seems fair to warn her. Besides, if I’m going to die today, it’s Rue I want to win. Even if it means a little extra food for my family, the idea of Peeta being crowned victor is unbearable. I call Rue’s name in a hushed whisper and the eyes appear, wide and alert, at once. She points up to the nest again. I hold up my knife and make a sawing motion. She nods and disap- pears. There’s a rustling in a nearby tree. Then the same noise again a bit farther off. I realize she’s leaping from tree to tree. It’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. Is this what she showed the Gamemakers? I imagine her flying around the training equipment never touching the floor. She should have gotten at least a ten. Rosy streaks are breaking through in the east. I can’t afford to wait any longer. Compared to the agony of last night’s climb, this one is a cinch. At the tree limb that holds the nest, I position the knife in the groove and I’m about to draw the teeth across the wood when I see something moving. There, on the nest. The bright gold gleam of a tracker jacker lazily making its way across the papery gray surface. No question, it’s acting a little subdued, but the wasp is up and moving and that means the others will be out soon as well. Sweat breaks out on the palms of my hands, beading up through the oint- 187

ment, and I do my best to pat them dry on my shirt. If I don’t get through this branch in a matter of seconds, the entire swarm could emerge and attack me. There’s no sense in putting it off. I take a deep breath, grip the knife handle and bear down as hard as I can. Back, forth, back, forth! The tracker jackers begin to buzz and I hear them coming out. Back, forth, back, forth! A stabbing pain shoots through my knee and I know one has found me and the others will be honing in. Back, forth, back, forth. And just as the knife cuts through, I shove the end of the branch as far away from me as I can. It crashes down through the lower branches, snagging temporarily on a few but then twisting free until it smashes with a thud on the ground. The nest bursts open like an egg, and a furious swarm of tracker jackers takes to the air. I feel a second sting on the cheek, a third on my neck, and their venom almost immediately makes me woozy. I cling to the tree with one arm while I rip the barbed stingers out of my flesh. Fortunately, only these three tracker jackers had identi- fied me before the nest went down. The rest of the insects have targeted their enemies on the ground. It’s mayhem. The Careers have woken to a full-scale tracker jacker attack. Peeta and a few others have the sense to drop everything and bolt. I can hear cries of “To the lake! To the lake!” and know they hope to evade the wasps by taking to the water. It must be close if they think they can outdistance the furious insects. Glimmer and another girl, the one from Dis- trict 4, are not so lucky. They receive multiple stings before they’re even out of my view. Glimmer appears to go complete- 188

ly mad, shrieking and trying to bat the wasps off with her bow, which is pointless. She calls to the others for help but, of course, no one returns. The girl from District 4 staggers out of sight, although I wouldn’t bet on her making it to the lake. I watch Glimmer fall, twitch hysterically around on the ground for a few minutes, and then go still. The nest is nothing but an empty shell. The wasps have va- nished in pursuit of the others. I don’t think they’ll return, but I don’t want to risk it. I scamper down the tree and hit the ground running in the opposite direction of the lake. The poi- son from the stingers makes me wobbly, but I find my way back to my own little pool and submerge myself in the water, just in case any wasps are still on my trail. After about five minutes, I drag myself onto the rocks. People have not exagge- rated the effects of the tracker jacker stings. Actually, the one on my knee is closer to an orange than a plum in size. A foul- smelling green liquid oozes from the places where I pulled out the stingers. The swelling. The pain. The ooze. Watching Glimmer twitching to death on the ground. It’s a lot to handle before the sun has even cleared the horizon. I don’t want to think about what Glimmer must look like now. Her body disfigured. Her swollen fingers stiffening around the bow . . . The bow! Somewhere in my befuddled mind one thought connects to another and I’m on my feet, teetering through the trees back to Glimmer. The bow. The arrows. I must get them. I haven’t heard the cannons fire yet, so perhaps Glimmer is in some sort of coma, her heart still struggling against the wasp 189

venom. But once it stops and the cannon signals her death, a hovercraft will move in and retrieve her body, taking the only bow and sheath of arrows I’ve seen out of the Games for good. And I refuse to let them slip through my fingers again! I reach Glimmer just as the cannon fires. The tracker jack- ers have vanished. This girl, so breathtakingly beautiful in her golden dress the night of the interviews, is unrecognizable. Her features eradicated, her limbs three times their normal size. The stinger lumps have begun to explode, spewing putrid green liquid around her. I have to break several of what used to be her fingers with a stone to free the bow. The sheath of arrows is pinned under her back. I try to roll over her body by pulling on one arm, but the flesh disintegrates in my hands and I fall back on the ground. Is this real? Or have the hallucinations begun? I squeeze my eyes tight and try to breathe through my mouth, ordering my- self not to become sick. Breakfast must stay down, it might be days before I can hunt again. A second cannon fires and I’m guessing the girl from District 4 has just died. I hear the birds fall silent and then one give the warning call, which means a hovercraft is about to appear. Confused, I think it’s for Glim- mer, although this doesn’t quite make sense because I’m still in the picture, still fighting for the arrows. I lurch back onto my knees and the trees around me begin to spin in circles. In the middle of the sky, I spot the hovercraft. I throw myself over Glimmer’s body as if to protect it but then I see the girl from District 4 being lifted into the air and vanishing. 190

“Do this!” I command myself. Clenching my jaw, I dig my hands under Glimmer’s body, get a hold on what must be her rib cage, and force her onto her stomach. I can’t help it, I’m hyperventilating now, the whole thing is so nightmarish and I’m losing my grasp on what’s real. I tug on the silver sheath of arrows, but it’s caught on something, her shoulder blade, something, and finally yank it free. I’ve just encircled the sheath with my arms when I hear the footsteps, several pairs, coming through the underbrush, and I realize the Careers have come back. They’ve come back to kill me or get their weapons or both. But it’s too late to run. I pull a slimy arrow from the sheath and try to position it on the bowstring but instead of one string I see three and the stench from the stings is so repulsive I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I’m helpless as the first hunter crashes through the trees, spear lifted, poised to throw. The shock on Peeta’s face makes no sense to me. I wait for the blow. Instead his arm drops to his side. “What are you still doing here?” he hisses at me. I stare un- comprehendingly as a trickle of water drips off a sting under his ear. His whole body starts sparkling as if he’s been dipped in dew. “Are you mad?” He’s prodding me with the shaft of the spear now. “Get up! Get up!” I rise, but he’s still pushing at me. What? What is going on? He shoves me away from him hard. “Run!” he screams. “Run!” Behind him, Cato slashes his way through the brush. He’s sparkling wet, too, and badly stung under one eye. I catch the 191

gleam of sunlight on his sword and do as Peeta says. Holding tightly to my bow and arrows, banging into trees that appear out of nowhere, tripping and falling as I try to keep my bal- ance. Back past my pool and into unfamiliar woods. The world begins to bend in alarming ways. A butterfly balloons to the size of a house then shatters into a million stars. Trees trans- form to blood and splash down over my boots. Ants begin to crawl out of the blisters on my hands and I can’t shake them free. They’re climbing up my arms, my neck. Someone’s screaming, a long high pitched scream that never breaks for breath. I have a vague idea it might be me. I trip and fall into a small pit lined with tiny orange bubbles that hum like the tracker jacker nest. Tucking my knees up to my chin, I wait for death. Sick and disoriented, I’m able to form only one thought: Peeta Mellark just saved my life. Then the ants bore into my eyes and I black out. 192

I enter a nightmare from which I wake repeatedly only to find a greater terror awaiting me. All the things I dread most, all the things I dread for others manifest in such vivid detail I can’t help but believe they’re real. Each time I wake, I think, At last, this is over, but it isn’t. It’s only the beginning of a new chapter of torture. How many ways do I watch Prim die? Re- live my father’s last moments? Feel my own body ripped apart? This is the nature of the tracker jacker venom, so care- fully created to target the place where fear lives in your brain. When I finally do come to my senses, I lie still, waiting for the next onslaught of imagery. But eventually I accept that the poison must have finally worked its way out of my system, leaving my body wracked and feeble. I’m still lying on my side, locked in the fetal position. I lift a hand to my eyes to find them sound, untouched by ants that never existed. Simply stretching out my limbs requires an enormous effort. So many parts of me hurt, it doesn’t seem worthwhile taking inventory of them. Very, very slowly I manage to sit up. I’m in a shallow hole, not filled with the humming orange bubbles of my hallu- cination but with old, dead leaves. My clothing’s damp, but I don’t know whether pond water, dew, rain, or sweat is the cause. For a long time, all I can do is take tiny sips from my 193

bottle and watch a beetle crawl up the side of a honeysuckle bush. How long have I been out? It was morning when I lost rea- son. Now it’s afternoon. But the stiffness in my joints suggests more than a day has passed, even two possibly. If so, I’ll have no way of knowing which tributes survived that tracker jacker attack. Not Glimmer or the girl from District 4. But there was the boy from District 1, both tributes from District 2, and Pee- ta. Did they die from the stings? Certainly if they lived, their last days must have been as horrid as my own. And what about Rue? She’s so small, it wouldn’t take much venom to do her in. But then again . . . the tracker jackers would’ve had to catch her, and she had a good head start. A foul, rotten taste pervades my mouth, and the water has little effect on it. I drag myself over to the honeysuckle bush and pluck a flower. I gently pull the stamen through the blos- som and set the drop of nectar on my tongue. The sweetness spreads through my mouth, down my throat, warming my veins with memories of summer, and my home woods and Gale’s presence beside me. For some reason, our discussion from that last morning comes back to me. “We could do it, you know.” “What?” “Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it.” And suddenly, I’m not thinking of Gale but of Peeta and . . . Peeta! He saved my life! I think. Because by the time we met up, I couldn’t tell what was real and what the tracker jacker 194

venom had caused me to imagine. But if he did, and my in- stincts tell me he did, what for? Is he simply working the Lov- er Boy angle he initiated at the interview? Or was he actually trying to protect me? And if he was, what was he doing with those Careers in the first place? None of it makes sense. I wonder what Gale made of the incident for a moment and then I push the whole thing out of my mind because for some reason Gale and Peeta do not coexist well together in my thoughts. So I focus on the one really good thing that’s happened since I landed in the arena. I have a bow and arrows! A full dozen arrows if you count the one I retrieved in the tree. They bear no trace of the noxious green slime that came from Glimmer’s body — which leads me to believe that might not have been wholly real — but they have a fair amount of dried blood on them. I can clean them later, but I do take a minute to shoot a few into a nearby tree. They are more like the wea- pons in the Training Center than my ones at home, but who cares? That I can work with. The weapons give me an entirely new perspective on the Games. I know I have tough opponents left to face. But I am no longer merely prey that runs and hides or takes desperate measures. If Cato broke through the trees right now, I wouldn’t flee, I’d shoot. I find I’m actually anticipating the moment with pleasure. But first, I have to get some strength back in my body. I’m very dehydrated again and my water supply is dangerously low. The little padding I was able to put on by gorging myself 195

during prep time in the Capitol is gone, plus several more pounds as well. My hip bones and ribs are more prominent than I remember them being since those awful months after my father’s death. And then there are my wounds to contend with — burns, cuts, and bruises from smashing into the trees, and three tracker jacker stings, which are as sore and swollen as ever. I treat my burns with the ointment and try dabbing a bit on my stings as well, but it has no effect on them. My mother knew a treatment for them, some type of leaf that could draw out the poison, but she seldom had cause to use it, and I don’t even remember its name let alone its appearance. Water first, I think. You can hunt along the way now. It’s easy to see the direction I came from by the path of destruc- tion my crazed body made through the foliage. So I walk off in the other direction, hoping my enemies still lie locked in the surreal world of tracker jacker venom. I can’t move too quickly, my joints reject any abrupt mo- tions. But I establish the slow hunter’s tread I use when track- ing game. Within a few minutes, I spot a rabbit and make my first kill with the bow and arrow. It’s not my usual clean shot through the eye, but I’ll take it. After about an hour, I find a stream, shallow but wide, and more than sufficient for my needs. The sun’s hot and severe, so while I wait for my water to purify I strip down to my underclothes and wade into the mild current. I’m filthy from head to toe, I try splashing myself but eventually just lay down in the water for a few minutes, letting it wash off the soot and blood and skin that has started to peel off my burns. After rinsing out my clothes and hanging 196

them on bushes to dry, I sit on the bank in the sun for a bit, untangling my hair with my fingers. My appetite returns and I eat a cracker and a strip of beef. With a handful of moss, I polish the blood from my silver weapons. Refreshed, I treat my burns again, braid back my hair, and dress in the damp clothes, knowing the sun will dry them soon enough. Following the stream against its current seems the smartest course of action. I’m traveling uphill now, which I prefer, with a source of fresh water not only for myself but possible game. I easily take out a strange bird that must be some form of wild turkey. Anyway, it looks plenty edible to me. By late afternoon, I decide to build a small fire to cook the meat, betting that dusk will help conceal the smoke and I can quench the fire by nightfall. I clean the game, taking extra care with the bird, but there’s nothing alarming about it. Once the feathers are plucked, it’s no bigger than a chicken, but it’s plump and firm. I’ve just placed the first lot over the coals when I hear the twig snap. In one motion, I turn to the sound, bringing the bow and ar- row to my shoulder. There’s no one there. No one I can see anyway. Then I spot the tip of a child’s boot just peeking out from behind the trunk of a tree. My shoulders relax and I grin. She can move through the woods like a shadow, you have to give her that. How else could she have followed me? The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. “You know, they’re not the only ones who can form al- liances,” I say. 197

For a moment, no response. Then one of Rue’s eyes edges around the trunk. “You want me for an ally?” “Why not? You saved me with those tracker jackers. You’re smart enough to still be alive. And I can’t seem to shake you anyway,” I say. She blinks at me, trying to decide. “You hun- gry?” I can see her swallow hard, her eye flickering to the meat. “Come on then, I’ve had two kills today.” Rue tentatively steps out into the open. “I can fix your stings.” “Can you?” I ask. “How?” She digs in the pack she carries and pulls out a handful of leaves. I’m almost certain they’re the ones my mother uses. “Where’d you find those?” “Just around. We all carry them when we work in the orc- hards. They left a lot of nests there,” says Rue. “There are a lot here, too.” “That’s right. You’re District Eleven. Agriculture,” I say. “Orchards, huh? That must be how you can fly around the trees like you’ve got wings.” Rue smiles. I’ve landed on one of the few things she’ll admit pride in. “Well, come on, then. Fix me up.” I plunk down by the fire and roll up my pant leg to reveal the sting on my knee. To my surprise, Rue places the handful of leaves into her mouth and begins to chew them. My mother would use other methods, but it’s not like we have a lot of op- tions. After a minute or so, Rue presses a gloppy green wad of chewed leaves and spit on my knee. 198

“Ohhh.” The sound comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. It’s as if the leaves are actually leaching the pain right out of the sting. Rue gives a giggle. “Lucky you had the sense to pull the stingers out or you’d be a lot worse.” “Do my neck! Do my cheek!” I almost beg. Rue stuffs another handful of leaves in her mouth, and soon I’m laughing because the relief is so sweet. I notice a long burn on Rue’s forearm. “I’ve got something for that.” I set aside my weapons and anoint her arm with the burn medicine. “You have good sponsors,” she says longingly. “Have you gotten anything yet?” I ask. She shakes her head. “You will, though. Watch. The closer we get to the end, the more people will realize how clever you are.” I turn the meat over. “You weren’t joking, about wanting me for an ally?” she asks. “No, I meant it,” I say. I can almost hear Haymitch groaning as I team up with this wispy child. But I want her. Because she’s a survivor, and I trust her, and why not admit it? She reminds me of Prim. “Okay,” she says, and holds out her hand. We shake. “It’s a deal.” Of course, this kind of deal can only be temporary, but nei- ther of us mentions that. Rue contributes a big handful of some sort of starchy root to the meal. Roasted over the fire, they have the sharp sweet taste of a parsnip. She recognizes the bird, too, some wild 199

thing they call a groosling in her district. She says sometimes a flock will wander into the orchard and they get a decent lunch that day. For a while, all conversation stops as we fill our sto- machs. The groosling has delicious meal that’s so fatty, the grease drips down your face when you bite into it. “Oh,” says Rue with a sigh. “I’ve never had a whole leg to myself before.” I’ll bet she hasn’t. I’ll bet meat hardly ever comes her way. “Take the other,” I say. “Really?” she asks. “Take whatever you want. Now that I’ve got a bow and ar- rows, I can get more. Plus I’ve got snares. I can show you how to set them,” I say. Rue still looks uncertainly at the leg. “Oh, take it,” I say, putting the drumstick in her hands. “It will only keep a few days anyway, and we’ve got the whole bird plus the rabbit.” Once she’s got hold of it, her appetite wins out and she takes a huge mouthful. “I’d have thought, in District Eleven, you’d have a bit more to eat than us. You know, since you grow the food,” I say. Rue’s eyes widen. “Oh, no, we’re not allowed to eat the crops.” “They arrest you or something?” I ask. “They whip you and make everyone else watch,” says Rue. “The mayor’s very strict about it.” I can tell by her expression that it’s not that uncommon an occurrence. A public whipping’s a rare thing in District 12, al- though occasionally one occurs. Technically, Gale and I could be whipped on a daily basis for poaching in the woods — well, 200